Alone Together
by lovethedarkside
Summary: Matthew Williams was running from his miserable existence to build a new life for himself. Gilbert Beilschmidt was running from his tainted past to start over with a clean slate. A story of crossed paths and two broken men who have more in common than they believe. [Prucan, other minor pairings]


**Alone Together**

**Disclaimer: Everything but the plot and my fictional people and places belong to their respective owners (read: not me).**

. . . . .

For once in his life, Matthew Williams was thankful that his brother was famous. Sure, his social invisibility would be enough for him to slip away unnoticed, but the money and the nice car and the family contacts certainly eased the process along. Matthew had been planning this for a long time, picking through his belongings to find the most meaningful pieces and gathering together clean clothes and money and toiletries. Yet, for as long as he had been planning his great escape, he had nothing. He did not know where he was going to go. He did not know how he was going to make money. He did not know what Alfred would do when he realized Matthew was really gone.

None of this bothered Matthew. This taste of chaos, this complete lack of planning, was wonderfully addicting. It added color to his dreary, unnoticed existence. Matthew savored the buzzing anticipation aching in his bones and let it overwhelm him until he could feel nothing of the qualms nestled in his heart. Potential loomed before him, and he loved it.

Now, he walked slowly through his adopted family's oversized garage, letting his fingers brush over the reds and grays and blacks of the plethora of cars and trucks. Florescent lights hummed in the silence above him, highlighting everything in stark white light. The only other sound was the rolling of the last of Matthew's suitcases, a Canadian affair decorated with a maple leaf and bumper stickers from every state and country he'd visited while with Alfred on tour.

Finally reaching his car, a black BMW, he threw the suitcase into the back and slammed the trunk shut. Pocketing the keys, Matthew followed the winding stone path connecting the house to the garage. He climbed the brick steps of the front porch and walked through the door, stepping into their large foyer for probably the last time in a long, long while. To his left, he could see his adoptive mother, Mrs. Sawyer, scolding the new maid, and to his right, he could see Mr. Sawyer manipulating numbers and figures to ensure a maximum profit. Matthew let his gaze drift over the expensive artwork that Mrs. Sawyer had placed around the house. The whole building was the very picture of tasteful perfection, complete with the latest in wallpaper and furniture and vases. Despite himself, Matthew couldn't bring himself to miss anything in this pretty, but superficial, house. The one and only person that Matthew had any chance of missing was currently upstairs in the room across the carpeted hall from his own room.

Matthew let his hand trail along the railing as he climbed the stairs, before moving to stand in front of Alfred's door. Softly, Matthew rapped on the rich wooden door. "Al?" he called, a small ache in his heart that he was leaving his brother, who was both the reason Matthew chose the leave and the reason Matthew wanted to stay, "Al, I've got something I need to tell you."

The door swung open, and Matthew was greeted by a face almost identical to his own. "Hey, Mattie, bro!" Alfred F. Jones, a successful singer and a popular model and part-time actor here in America, exclaimed while throwing an arm around Matthew. He peered at Matthew curiously. "What's up, dude? You never come to talk to me!"

'That's because you're always too busy with business and your bustling social life to care about talking to a nobody like me,' Matthew thought bitterly. It wasn't that he hated his brother for it, quite the opposite really. He was just tired of being pushed to the back of everyone's minds. He only wanted to step out of Alfred's shadow, and the only way he was going to be able to do that was by leaving and going far away, where Alfred's fame didn't reach.

"Eh, I just wanted to say goodbye," he whispered. Oh, God, the guilt he felt about making Alfred go through this was nearly overwhelming, but he forced his way through the rehearsed words. "I'll be going away for a long time, forever maybe, and I want you to know that it wasn't your fault. You know, I'm proud of you. Maybe you will always be the better of the two of us, but I'm glad that at least you've got a successful life. I love you, Al. You're the best brother I could have asked for."

Alfred's wide smile fell off his face, and a touch of panic and worry entered his eyes. "What? Mattie, wait! Don't... don't do anything rash, please. You're a wonderful person, Mattie. You're smarter than I could ever hope to be, and you're always so kind to me. Please, Mattie, you know, I love you too. Who else could I turn to for advice on all of my stupid little issues? Don't go. I wouldn't know how to survive if you were dead. Please…" His voice trailed off as he saw the stubborn determination, the determination that ran in through their family's blood and led them to great heights, light in Matthew's eyes and set in his jaw.

"It's not like that, Al," Matthew said, choking out a laugh in a failed attempt to comfort his brother, "I'm not suicidal. Just… tired."

"Then–" Alfred cut off his sentence to drag his sleeve across his watering eyes. "Then why are you leaving me? Did I do something wrong?" He sounded betrayed, heartbroken, and Matthew felt his heart move for his idiotic, naïve, well-meaning brother.

"No," Matthew responded fiercely, "You did everything just right. It isn't your fault, as I said. It's mine." He saw his brother open his mouth to argue, and he hurried on before Alfred to protest. "No, don't argue. It's my fault, and I'm sorry, Alfred." Matthew let his tone soften until his voice was barely more substantial than a whisper, "But I have to. Just, let me go. It won't be forever, and it won't be permanent. I-I promise I'll see you again, someday. Maybe you won't recognize me or remember me, but I will come back in this lifetime. I promise."

Alfred stared sadly at Matthew, his eyes glittering again. "Keep in contact, then?" It was whispered, a frail plea.

Matthew smiled weakly. "It wouldn't be running away if I kept in contact, eh?" Upon seeing his brother's broken expression, he relented a little. "Fine. But only so you know I'm alright. No pleading me to come home and no talk of work, okay? Just us, as brothers."

Without another word, Alfred nodded and pulled his brother into a tight hug. "I'll wait for you to come back," he whispered in Matthew's ear, "I'll be right here, waiting." When he pulled away, the tears in his eyes were tracing salty lines down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe them away this time. "Goodbye… for now."

Matthew stared one last time at his brother's face, memorizing each difference and similarity to his own. "Yeah, goodbye. For now."

The last two words hung in the air, a fragile hope and a promise.

And then he was running. His feet pounded down the stairs and through the foyer. He sprinted past his oblivious adoptive parents and out the front door. Ignoring the stone path, he cut through the grass, still wet with morning dew that left tears on his legs to match the tears on his face. Jumping into his BMW, he slammed the door shut and drove away, leaving everything he loved and hated behind.

. . . . .

Gilbert Beilschmidt stared down at his hands and the letter that he held in them. His eyes traced the looping letters as longing stung his chest.

_Hey, Gilbert. Um, I really don't like beating around the bush, and you know that, so I'll just tell you straight up. I know we've broken up – hell, we barely lasted at all – but I thought you have the right to know, since I know you still have been lusting after me. I am going to get married. He's a wonderful man, completely different from you, not to say that you are an awful man. That isn't true in the slightest, despite everything you've done. I just thought the information would help you move on. Unfortunately, for reasons we both know, I can't invite you to the ceremony. I'm sorry, I really am. I just hope the rest of your life is better. ~Elizaveta Héderváry_

Gilbert felt a spark of rage course through him, and he pushed down an urge to rip the aging paper into pieces. Willing his shaking hands to steady, he carefully folded the note back into a neat little rectangle and stuffed it into one of his bags.

It was five years since he received this letter in the mail, written in a painfully familiar handwriting and sent to him without a return address. Life had not improved since that day, not in the slightest. Life had thrown trial upon trial at him, and Gilbert had failed each one. Now, his younger brother hated him, his love had married another man, and he was broken, reduced to a life of crime.

Gilbert didn't know when his life had taken a turn for the worst. He supposed he was never a very lucky person, even as a child. His father was an ill man who cared little about Gilbert, the child he never wanted, and he left him in the care of a family friend named Fredrick, whom Gilbert fondly called Old Fritz. Fritz was kind to him, training him to fight and to love. But Fritz was already old, and it was only a matter of time that he died, stripping Gilbert of the rest of his childish innocence.

Life was hard, but Gilbert always managed to fight and pull through. Now, it seemed like everything was caving in on him. He had to leave and start again.

Gilbert climbed the creaky old steps to his tiny bedroom. His room was clean and neat as always, but it was also empty. His clothes were packed into two suitcases. The memorabilia from better times fit into a small briefcase. His guitar rode on his shoulder in its case, and everything else was stuffed into a duffel bag.

Carefully, Gilbert looked in his closet and underneath his bed before going through the other rooms of his tiny apartment. He ripped up the carpet of the hallway, wrinkling his nose at the old, moldy smell that rose from the floor. He peeked behind the leaky bathroom pipes that let off a steady _drip, drip, drip_. He opened all the cabinets in the kitchen, disturbing the dust that settled over the unused, outdated appliances. He tapped along the once-gaudy wallpaper, now faded and peeling off the walls. Every room gave off the same aura of _broken, dirty, worthless._ It certainly was a building that accurately reflected its master. Gilbert absolutely loathed it. The only reason he went through it again was to make sure he left no incriminating evidence behind.

Finally satisfied that everything was as it should be, he left the house – if it could be called that – and headed towards town. There were a few people he needed to talk to yet.

The first few were purely business, and they were all dealt with the same way. Gilbert told them that he was leaving and that he came to collect the money that he was owed. They grudgingly handed over the precious cash, not without trying to cheat him, of course, and told him that they would miss having him around. Gilbert would force a smile and look past the blatant lie and return the false sentiment while tucking the euros into his battered wallet.

There was one person he would miss, though: a man who went by the title Doc. Doc resided in an unassuming back alley, which he kept meticulously clean. Any problem you had, Doc had a way to take away the pain. Of course, it was all for a price, but not too expensive that you wouldn't keep coming back. No, how would he ever keep in business like that? And he definitely kept in business. For someone who lived out on the streets, he was decently well off, with the help of Gilbert.

Doc and Gilbert had a special sort of relationship. Gilbert would fetch him customers, and Doc would service him for free. It was simple, and they both held a mutual respect for each other. Sometimes, if they got high enough, they would share the burdens that life had unfairly dealt out to them.

"Hey, Doc," Gilbert said quietly, lifting his hand into a small wave.

Doc looked up at the pale man. "Hey, Gil," he responded, squinting into the sunlight, "Do you need anything?"

Gilbert started to decline. "I probably shouldn't… Ah, fuck it. Give me something strong."

Doc drew his eyebrows together worriedly. "There's something wrong, isn't there?"

"When isn't there something wrong?" Gilbert barked out a harsh laugh and slid down the rough brick wall to sit down beside his only friend.

"You're avoiding the question." It was an accusation, simple and pointed. "Tell me." A command, spoken quietly yet filled with authority.

Gilbert raised his head at the man's tone. "I'm leaving." Those two words were enough to unleash the flood of words that were pouring out of his mouth, uncaring and unstoppable. "I've got to leave this place, this town, this country. Too many memories here in Germany, you know? I just need to get away. Fuck it all. The police are beginning to get suspicious too, I think, or I'm just going crazy. Who knows? I don't know; it's completely possible. I don't know what else to do. I'm sorry that I'm leaving you." He stopped for a moment, a reprieve in the storm rushing from his heart to his mouth, and dug around in his pocket. "Here. I know you don't really do emails or texting or whatnot, what with the nature of our business, but feel free to call or something."

Doc nodded, his despair hidden behind his ever-blank mask. "Good luck then." The words were simple, with a thousand paragraphs of meaning beneath them. _Goodbye,_ he was saying, _I'll miss you. You were a wonderful friend. I wish that we might meet again, but I know that will never happen. Life is cut short when you're living in the streets._ But the words remained unsaid. Their relationship was not based on what they said, but rather, on what they didn't say. They both liked it better that way, and this simple goodbye was all they needed.

"And you too."

With that, Gilbert turned and walked out of that dark alley where he spent so many days wiping away the pain. Now, as he headed for the nearest airport, all he had were the five bags he lugged behind him and the one-way plane ticket he tucked into the front pocket of his jeans.


End file.
